Wild Above Rule Or Art, Enormous Bliss.

Leaves Have Their Time To Fall, And Flowers To Wither At The North - Wind's Breath, And Stars To Set; But All, Thou Hast All Seasons For Thine Own, O Death!

[rhyme Is] But The Invention Of A Barbarous Age, To Set Off Wretched Matter And Lame Meter; ... Not Without Cause Therefore Some Both Italian And Spanish Poets Of Prime Note Have Rejected Rhyme, ... As Have Also Long Since Our Best English Tragedies, As... Trivial And Of No True Musical Delight; Which [truly] Consists Only In Apt Numbers, Fit Quantity Of Syllables, And The Sense Variously Drawn Out From One Verse Into Another, Not In The Jingling Sound Of Like Endings, A Fault Avoided By The Learned Ancients Both In Poetry And All Good Oratory.

What If Earth Be But The Shadow Of Heaven And Things Therein - Each Other Like, More Than On Earth Is Thought?

My Latest Found, Heaven's Last, Best Gift, My Ever New Delight!

Who Can In Reason Then Or Right Assume Monarchy Over Such As Live By Right His Equals, If In Power Or Splendor Less, In Freedom Equal?